The Church of the Redeemer

July 30, 2006

John Paolella

Good morning.

For those of you who have never mounted the steps of this pulpit, I can assure you, it is a humbling place to find oneself.  I should have known, after submitting to this exercise last year, that I would regret accepting Suzy’s kind offer.  And yesterday, as I sat in my un-air-conditioned office, the reality of perspiration trumped any notion of divine inspiration. In my procrastination, which I have developed into a high art form, I began to dwell on the highlights of my summer thus far.

On the 22^nd of June, my wife, Elliot, and I and our two children, William and James, returned to our home in Brookline after a journey to Italy.  We had taken the children, their grandparents, and their beloved babysitter –Angelique--to the cradle of modern Christianity—Rome.    Planning an itinerary for seven people ranging in age from 8 to 75 with educational levels that span from the second grade through a Ph.D. seemed overwhelming. Like Saint Christopher carrying a burden that became increasingly unbearable, the responsibility of ensuring a good time for all turned me into a nervous wreck.

Would the hotel be sufficiently accommodating? Would my mother, who walks with difficulty, be able to move around without too much discomfort? Would my father, who won’t even walk on the golf course, complain of fatigue? Would restaurants be able to accommodate all of us?  Would I remember any of my Italian? As we finished packing, I truly wondered whether this would be the trip from hell rather than the wonderful experience I intended it to be. 

From the moment Angie met all of us at Kennedy Airport until our return to the United States, our journey was as peaceful and exhilarating as any I could have ever imagined. Brilliant images flash in my mind.  Angie, William, James and I marveling at the interior view of Saint Peter’s from the drum of its dome; the towering bronze doors of the Pantheon; my Mother indefatigably exploring all of the Palatine Hill; my father contentedly tracing St. Peter’s steps along the Appian way; William, our resident lego meister, noting the elipse within the circular Coliseum; and James, our epicure, relishing every morsel of prosciutto e melone. 

How could it be that I, who had worried myself into a frenzy –I who had so little faith in the success of our venture--, could suddenly find myself dozing peacefully next to my son James on an Alitalia jet headed for the Eternal City? If I find my counterpart in the hardened hearts of the disciples in today’s reading, Angie, as we know her, is perpetually poised to pick up Elijah’s mantle.

Angelique— an apt name for this angel of God who came to us when William was but a few weeks old.  I know that Angie isn’t the only angel to have brushed by us, but she is the only one to have stayed in our home for eight years. Unlike Gabriel, or Ariel, or any of the other Angels, she didn’t have a prophetic script.  There were no divine proclamations.  In fact, there were no specific words at all. And when there were words, they often seemed better suited to those of less intellectual capacity.  Her message, which she poured into each of us, was and is her life.  Her life, I came to realize, was a witness to the Lord. 

The gift of her presence in our lives was transformative.  Speaking personally, she brought me back from an unreconciled apostasy. She made me realize that the most important thing in this life is how we allow Christ to work in us and through us. Watching her in every aspect of her life made me realize that the disciples—obtuse in so many of those Gospel stories—are far more than historic characters in a divine drama.  They are also symbols of the spiritual journey the Lord promises us, spurring us to develop a life of active prayer that can lead to the constant indwelling of the Holy Spirit.

In today’s reading from Mark, the disciples are adrift in the face of an adverse wind.  The Lord, walking on the water, sees their strain, fear, and worry, yet his intent is to walk right by them.  He only changes direction when they cry out to him.  Only then does he calm their fears, the wind, and presumably the waters. The disciples are astounded—even though they had just witnessed the incredible miracle of the loaves and the fishes.  Like us, the disciples just don’t get it—their hearts are hardened.  Each miracle to them still seems to be an isolated act of prestidigitation.  Why?

What the disciples don’t yet realize at this point in Mark’s narrative, but what Jesus teaches us through his own example, is that the indwelling of the divine spirit must be actively called upon through the discipline of prayer—otherwise that spirit will continue to pass each of us by. Remember that Jesus made them get in the boat—despite their protests-- while he went up the mountain to pray.  Like the disciples, we have little choice but to submit to the challenges this life places before us.

Like Moses, Elijah is the great deliverer, striking his staff to part the waters of the River Jordan. Together with Moses, he appears to the apostles James , John, and Peter at the transfiguration.  His holiness is attested to by the Chariot of Fire that unifies him with God without having to suffer the degradation of death. The aspect of today’s reading that interests me, however, is how Elisha succeeds to the mantel of Elijah.  The author gives us the answer, repeating it no fewer than three times:  “As the Lord lives,” Elisha says, “and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.”  Without belaboring the point, suffice it to say that the holiness of Elijah isn’t something that falls upon Elisha. It is something Elisha works for with constancy, choosing affirmatively to remain with—to dwell in-- his holy mentor. The mantle of Elijah doesn’t fall upon Elisha; rather, Elisha bends down to pick it up.  And here is the lesson that the disciples have still not learned.  The Lord will be with us only in so far as we continue to submit to him and ask him to enter our lives.

You know, Angie always did a number of things that, in my former and less acute stages of arrogance, I regarded as rather simplistic, if helpful to her.  She attended mass daily at the Church of St. Jean, just two blocks from our apartment, every morning.  And she read, on a daily basis, those simple, daily prayer manuals that sit on tables in the narthex of many Catholic churches. What I once dismissed as ritualistic practices that amount to nothing, I now recognize as moments of submission, aspects of obedience that facilitate the indwelling of our Lord. Angie, our babysitter, had figured out something that all of my academic credentials, graduate seminars on Aquinas, and thesis on Neo-Stoicism had failed to instill in me. If we submit and if we learn not just to pray but to listen, the Lord will be increasingly with us.

I know now that it was the Lord—working through Angie—who relieved my mounting stress in anticipation of our trip to Rome.  It was Angie’s guileless love that infused our traveling group with laughter.  It was Angie’s calm faith that ignited ours.  It was Angie—not Princeton, not Harvard, not Yale, who succeeded in teaching me what a life of faith can be about.

The second big event of this summer was depositing our son, William, at sleep away camp for a month.  Before our trip to Rome, I had worried about everything a father might worry about—and more, given that I had never been to camp.  Yet upon our return from Italy, nothing seemed more natural than depositing him at Camp Dudley on the Western shores of Lake Champlain.    William’s letters seemed joyful and the month slid by more quickly than I could have imagined.  In the blink of an eye, we found ourselves last Saturday headed back over Lake Champlain for parents’ visiting day on what would be his penultimate day of camp.  I’m not quite sure what the weather was like here in Boston, but I would be understating the rains we had in Westport, New York, if I called them monsoons.

When I first spied William, for a fleeting moment I seemed to sense the man he would become rather than the boy he still is. In the absence of his parents and brother, he had learned to rely upon his friendships with others, his own good judgment, and, I hope, his developing relationship with God.  With the opportunity to watch final sporting games and archery demonstrations washed away, we were left with little more than dinner and the famous Camp Dudley hymn sing.

With all due respect to the Redeemer, the singing of hymns at Camp Dudley is an extraordinary experience.  What may be lacking occasionally in musical talent is made up ten fold in enthusiasm.  The choral director, known as Mayo, sits behind a grand piano in the arts auditorium, his hands flying about the keyboard like Sam the piano player in Casablanca. Gospel runs through him like a force of nature.  Of the hymns we heard and sang, the one that stuck in my mind was one that we’ve heard the children perform right here under the direction of Chris Eastburn: “Put Your Hand in the Hand.”  I’m sure you know the lyrics:  “Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the water; Put your hand in the hand of the man who calmed the sea; Take a look at yourself and you can look at others differently, put Your hand in the hand of the man from Galilee.” The vigor of the Dudley campers’ rendition of this hymn, complete with spirited hand clapping, was as forceful as a Gospel choir in Harlem.  Mayo—a big burley black man from the south—had ignited something in this crowd, and it left me spellbound and at peace. 

As we headed back to the Vermont side of Lake Champlain on the late Ferry, the words of that hymn, the rhythm and enthusiasm of the boys’ singing, and the simple words of today’s passage from Mark were all in my mind.  It was quite a storm we found ourselves in. There was little visibility; the wind was fierce; and lake water would occasionally spray over the side of the Ferry onto our windshield.  I felt a calm in the face of that storm.  Elliot did, too.  I knew we had put our hand in the hand of the man.  We had reached to him and he would be our guide; he would calm any storm; he would give us the strength to accept and deal with the challenges of this life.

Sometimes we slip into the doldrums—spiritual doldrums.  When that happens, there are a number of things we might do.  The first, the easiest, and most assuredly the least reliable, would be to wait for an Angel to visit.  The more difficult and far more reliable step—the one Jesus teaches us to take in his word this morning and through his own example, would be to turn to him.  A daily devotional, a prayer group, the Redeemer Small Bible Study, opportunities abound.  But pro-action is commanded of us.  Find time—preferably the same time—every day—for a moment of reflection and stillness.  If we do not take the time to listen to the Lord, we will never hear him. If we do not take time to pray to the Lord, his grace cannot flow through us.  If we do not take his hand, he cannot be our guide.

Angels may be where you least expect them. But what we hear today is that the Lord always stands ready to take our hand if we reach out for his.